


Harold the Magnificent and the Philosopher's Stone

by DarkPrinceOfClowns



Series: Harold the Magnificent [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Warhammer Fantasy
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:26:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25841317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkPrinceOfClowns/pseuds/DarkPrinceOfClowns
Summary: Prince Harold has grown from a small, scared child in a cupboard into a fine young prince, nurtured in the decadent bosom of Pleasure at the Gilded Palace. But are the Wizarding World ready for the brave Hero they all love? Or will they too fall to the sickly sweet seduction of Slaanesh? Watch as the Winds of Chaos sweeps across the Wizarding World, with all that it entails...
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Harry Potter/Others, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Harry Potter/Voldemort
Series: Harold the Magnificent [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1875100
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26





	Harold the Magnificent and the Philosopher's Stone

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to Harold the Magnificent, but it CAN be read separately.
> 
> This story begins with Harold (Harry) entering the Wizarding World for his first year at Hogwarts. The prequel, Harold the Magnificent, details his childhood, and how he became who he is today.

Note for those of you whom has not been directed here from the Prequel:

This is the Sequel to Harold the Magnificent. But as this story begins with Harold aka, Harry's Hogwarts letter, it can stand alone as the beginning of the first book as well.

Although his entire childhood, and the answer to any questions as to how he came to be the person he is now, and live where he does, is found in the Prequel. So feel free to read that as well, whether before or after this.

Thank you. 

\- D.

* * *

* * *

Harold stared at the...thing, that was sitting before him. 

He was pretty sure it was a bird. The eight wings were a dead giveaway. It could have started out as an owl --if one ignored the tree glowing red eyes, it's glistening blue-black plumage and the razor-sharp teeth in its relatively short beak. 

A long, serpentine tongue flickered impatiently out at him as it held out it's abnormally muscular leg with wicked talons, to which a slightly scorched envelope was attached.

He supposed it didn't matter what it was.

What mattered, was that the letter that it held out to him was addressed to one Mr. H. Potter, Third Family Wing, Gilded Palace, The Chaotic Wastes.

'How strange...'

"Father!" Harold shouted across the usual din in their dining hall. "Do we have anyone named H. Potter here?" 

He stared at the letter, wondering if it was to a servant or something, because he knew for a fact it wasn't for anyone actually living in the family wing. He ignored the glare from his etiquette teacher at his shouting.

The...creature... gurgled out what might have been a hoot. Provided the bird was halfway between drowning and drawing it's last, rattling breath.

Harold scooted away from it. It might look abnormally pretty --in a bizarre, fucked up way-- but it sure as hell didn't sound very well. He prayed to Slaanesh that whatever it had wasn't contagious for humans.

Sigvald was on his feet only a second after realizing what was going on. He couldn't believe he'd forgotten about Heika's warning!

"Let me see that." Sigvald said, and rushed to grab it. Harold was still preoccupied with figuring out the owl, something his father seemed to notice.

"Oh, don't worry about the owl. Slaanesh protects us from the disgusting influences of the other gods within these walls." He studied the owl with some curiosity, before dismissing it.

"Must have passed through the northern parts. Khaos* is especially volatile up by the Veil of the gods and the Portal to the New New World."* Sigvald said distractedly as he read the letter.

Harold shrugged and looked at the deformed owl again. He suddenly didn't feel like eating anymore. At least not at the same table as that disease-ridden thing.

"Excuse me." Harold said, dropping the napkin on his place before getting up. Maybe he could see if the chef had anything good in the kitchen later instead.

* * *

"But I want Hermes with me! He can deliver my mail, he's way smarter than any of the stupid owls!" Harold was stomping his foot like a five-year-old child. Oddrún merely sighed.

"He's an eagle, not an owl. He wouldn't know how to deliver mail, young master" Oddrún tried again. But centuries of trying to reason with his Prince --King now-- told him that there was no reasoning with the young prince while he was in this mood. He really was just like his father sometimes, which honestly worried him.

"Then make him learn it!" he insisted, glaring at his father's oldest servant and friend.

"I will ask Heíka about it." Oddrún reluctantly conceded. 

He wanted to tell the child no. He wanted to say it was impossible. Or at least not worth the work it would require to make it possible. It just wasn't healthy for a child to get everything they wanted, every single time. Sigvald was a prime example of that. His friend and blood-brother was not a bad person --in and of himself-- but he was rotten to the core. But he hadn't always been that way...

Oddrún had no illusions about his best friend. He knew what lurked inside that man's chest. 

At least his own curse only manifested in the abhorrent looks he had, and not in his very soul. Unlike Sigvald. 

He often cursed that day when they listened to their so-called 'benefactor's' advice.

He didn't want this child to end up like them. He wished he could spare him his father's terrible fate. But no... It was not within his power to do so. 

He swore to protect his blood brother and childhood friend until death --and to obey his Geld Prince-- and that was what he would do. He had no choice but to stand by and watch the horrible mistake of his childhood being made all over again.

He could only pray that the young prince did not drag anyone else down with him. Feeble and worthless as such a prayer was.

* * *

Sigvald was, as could be predicted, beside himself with excitement at the idea --once he caught wind of it.

"Why don't we just implant a human brain in him?! Or sacrifice a few people to Slaanesh?! That'll fix him right up, I'm sure of it!"

Sadly, Sigvald was not the most skilled in in the area of magic and sorcery, and that naturally lead to Heìka's current headache. 

He tossed aside yet another Tome of the Dark and Forbidden Arts and dived into the next one.

At first, he had been exited. It was, after all, an unheard of accomplishment to create such an unnatural creation. And Heìka reveled in a good challenge! Not to mention all the new knowledge he would gather on the way!

No matter what the young prince liked to think of his beloved pet eagle, it was nowhere near as intelligent as the magical owls breeds the Wizards of this New World used. Nor did it have the same sense of direction, or attunement to its owner. Not to mention it had to survive --preferably fairly unchanged-- the long and perilous flight through the unstable chaotic energies that made up the Portal to the New World. Assuming it survived long enough to reach the Portal, past the pure Winds of Khaos that howled through the landscape up by the Veil of the Gods and changed the very landscape around them.

Oh, the attunement was easy! There were a number of spells and rituals aimed at creating or binding a familiar to the wizard or sorcerer who wanted it. And there was a wide variety of spells to increase someone's intelligence as well --albeit mostly for human and humanoid creature's use, and most of them only temporarily, but they did exist. 

And there also were spells to help you find your way around, and rituals to pinpoint the location of certain people and even beasts.

No.... What had him so frustrated was to make all the elements come together in one single creature... without exploding its tiny bird brain in the process!

Which was why he had gone through so many birds that he'd completely lost count by now. He didn't even want to consider the consequences should anything happen to the actual royal pet eagle...

He cast a quick glance over at the latest test-subject as it stared hungrily at him from it's cage.

Well.... It was an improvement. 

He shuddered at the intense predatorial gaze. If only you ignored the way it randomly attacked and ate... well... everyone. 

It was particularly found of brains, for some reason. Heika wondered if it was the necromancy or the intelligence spell...

He should probably kill it. It was only a matter of time before it figured out how to get loose from the cage --spells or no spells-- and started eating again. It would be the best for everyone.

Heika shuddered again and slammed the thick Tome shut and grabbed his ritual knife. Might as well make the most of it he supposed.

"Praised be Slaanesh..." he muttered as he raised his knife--

* * *

Harold stared at the Eagle. The Eagle stared back.

"Hermes?" he asked, looking at his pet eagle again. The Eagle gave a small, royal nod.

"Good. It seems Heika did his job well." Harold said and beamed brightly at it. His mother hid a small smile as the Eagle seemed to push it's chest out in unspoken pride.

"Now listen up, Hermes! I am trusting you with my mail. With my very personal mail! And trust me-- this is not a task for the run of the mill eagle or --Slaanesh forbid-- owl!" he spat the last word out as if it was venom. 

"I hope I can trust that you're the right bird for that job," he said, studying the eagle the way a general studied his troops, and if an Eagle could have saluted someone, Vigdís was sure this one would have.

"Keep in mind that this is a very serious and important job! The Royal Family has a certain standard to uphold, and-" His small finger went into the air as he launched into an impromptu but passionate speech about the honor and glory of working for the Royal Family, and the dangers of delivering the post.

'Perhaps it was the small uniform band draped across its feather chest,' she thought. Or perhaps it was the inspiring speech her son was giving to it on the importance of his letter and parcels, and the various ways to maim anyone who dared to try and steal them from him!

Or possibly even the thought of the gloriously shiny badges that its new "Uniform" could one day be decorated with --if he was a good and strong Post-Eagle,-- but Hermes, the newly appointed Royal Post* Eagle looked like he was taking his new job a little too serious. Eerily so.

And woe to those who tried to mess with the Royal Mail* that this Eagle was in charge of!

* * *

"How can I pack just one chest?!" Harold crossed his arms, glaring at his father. "What about my bear-pelt? I want to bring my bear-pelt! I killed that bear myself!" Harold practically yelled as he pointed at the somewhat large pelt that was lying on top of the stack of colorful clothes Harold had chosen for school. It fit him perfectly, reaching down to his feet at the moment, but it was big enough for him to use it as a shorter drape once he grew up as well.

Sigvald simply stared at him with his arm crossed, unimpressed by his son's bad attempt to lie to him.

"Okay, okay! So I killed the former owner of it..." Harold looked away, a faint blush tainting his cheeks as he caved under his father's stern eyes. "...who was my age..." he muttered in defeat, twiddling his fingers. 

It didn't sound nearly as impressive as killing a bear... 

"But I started a war!" Harold said and perked up a bit. That had been fun. And it was totally impressive! He harrumphed to himself. Yup, definitively impressive! Even if he didn't kill a bear... and hadn't been allowed to fight in the war. 

Stupid mom and her stupid rules. He was totally old enough to fight in a war! His crosses his arms defiantly, his cheeks bulging out like a chipmunk's.

Sigvald's stern gaze had by now broken into a small smile of amusement. His son was absolutely adorable sometimes. 

And he understood Harold's trepidation. It wouldn't do for the son of a great King like himself to not have all of his glorious clothes with him. 

From what Heíka said, the school was set inside a Castle, and was as such a very respectable place for a prince to study and learn. The teachers were supposed to be some of the very best as well.

But that also meant that he would undoubtedly be surrounded by the sons of noblemen, and many of those judged people by appearance alone. And clothes were such an important accessory to his son's already breathtaking beauty...

Thankfully, however, Sigvald had foreseen this very event. His son had grown to be so alike to him that it made his chest swell with pride.

"Don't worry, son. I made Heika enchant the chest for you. It can hold quite a lot more than it looks like." 

Sigvald chuckled at his son's suspicious look as he opened the chest, and the wonder and amazement in his eyes when he he realized he couldn't reach the bottom, not even when he halfway climbed in.

How he missed that feeling! Sigvald pulled his son out and hugged him tightly in a fit of nostalgia, ignoring his tiny hands swatting at him to let go even as he lifted him up. But the selfish King just laughed and hugged him even closer, twirling him around in his joy.

* * *

"Have you packed everything?"

"Yes."

"Did you remember your furs?" Vigdís noticed something on a chair in the corner of his room. Surely he'd want that, it was his favorite!

"Yes, Mother!" Harold said, then groaned as he saw what she picked up. 

"Oh, for Loesh's sake, I will not need my old teddy. I haven't played with it in years. I am not a child!" he pulled the beer out of the bag and threw it into the closet.

He didn't like the bear anymore. In fact, he hated it!

It always made him remember the time when he met his Father. He remembered how young and naive he had been then, and that feeling that tugged his heart... He suddenly stomped his feet in an anger and threw a fit.

"Moooooom!!! Get the jester! Or the singer! Anyone! I want to be entertained! I need to be entertained!!" 

His mother merely sighed and patted his head sadly. This was all his Father's doing, she was sure of it. He spoiled the kid too much!

Non the less, she walked to the door and ordered the nearest servant to go entertain her son, right now!

She knew both her son and her husband well enough to know what when they got in that mood, they needed their desires filled immediately.

"I know you're not an entertainer!" she hissed at him as he tried to protest, "I don't care if you stand on your head and do a back-flip out a window or juggle burning coal in your bare hands, just do something!" she struck him across the face and glared the man into submission. 

'Honestly. Servants!'

While she didn't want her child to become as spoiled as Sigvald was, she also knew that --in the same situation-- her husband would often become morose and depressed for days afterwards, and more volatile and destructive than usual. 

Even the Court feared Sigvald when he was in that mood. And she didn't want to find out if her son was the same way. She really didn't! She clutched her hand in front of her chest and momentarily closed her eyes, taking a deep, pained breath, trying to calm herself. 

The servant suddenly let out a pained shout. At the same time the rattling of wood and the sound of a heavy weight hitting what could only be the insides of the fireplace sounded. It was quickly followed by more screaming and the unmistakable scent of burning flesh.

Then she heard the beautiful laughter of her beloved child and sighed in relief, leaning against the wall. Thank the gods! He was happy again. Crisis avoided!

* * *

In another part of the castle, a very different kind of servant was sitting in deep prayer to Slaanesh.

It had been tree very long days of heavy drinking, the use of a variety of hallucinogenic and other strange herbs --with equally strange and psychedelic effects-- paired with the ritual sacrifices of quite a few slaves --after enjoying a pleasure with them in ways that she would have enjoyed far more more had she been male-- and she was tired to exhaustion.

Barely conscious after indulging in the most extreme acts her body could withstand, Dar'slaa prayed.

"My Darling Lord Slaanesh, hear my prayers!" she muttered, falling to the floor before pushing herself back up to her feets again.

"For tree days I have done my best to amuse thee! Lord of Pleasure! Mistress of Delight! I have given thee all I have to give, and I beg of thee... Please grant me the powers to follow and protect my Charge, and to fulfill my Vows, no matter where in the world he goes. No matter what he does, or who he is up against! Let me be able to stay by his side and serve and protect him, I beg of thee!"

She fell to the ground again, almost crying as she felt the darkness close in on the edge of her vision, and she cursed her weak elven body.

Just as she was about to pass out, she heard a sound. The clanking of high heels against the stone floor and the clacking of claw-like pincers. 

The wind blew a sweet, musky scent and she saw a glimpse of what might have been hoofs, or perhaps tall boots coming to a stop before her. 

A seductive breath on her ear. A bite. A lick. A sweet, sweet laughter.

"Do you give your body and soul to the Lord of Pleasure? Now and for all time?"

"Y...yes," Dar'slaa replied, fighting to stay awake.

"Will you willingly allow me in? Will you welcome me and let our bodies merge as one?"

"Y..yes!" she forced the words out, her mouth dry, her stomach about to reject the gluttonous feast she had forced on it.

"Say it!" the sweet, seductive voice whispered, and she felt her sore most private parts being invaded by something slim and slimy and serpentine.

"I...I invite you in. Grant me my wish! My body and soul for my wish!" the words hurt. They cut and scratched her sore throat. 

And then she suddenly felt herself being filled and stretched in a way she had never in her life felt! Pleasure beyond Pleasure, and fulfillment that no mere man could ever provide. 

She gasped and moaned. Her moans turned to screams.

She felt herself split apart. Rupture. Break. Her private parts burned and tore. She swore she could hear herself rip apart!

Pain and pleasure intermingled until she could not tell where one ended and the other began. 

Tears wet her face even as her eyes bulged wide open, seeing nothing. Her whole world was Pain, Pleasure. Joy and Misery. Pride and Regret.

Her world turn dark, so dark... And she felt cold. So cold. She felt as if she'd never get warm ever again. 

Dar'slaa cried out in ecstasy! 

And on the floor the broken mess that was her body shuddered and twitched and changed. One moment a serpent, the other a girl. 

And the girl sat up. Her arms pushed her off the floor with a superhuman effort. Her legs would not move, even if the serpentine qualities that bound them together was slowly receding.

And the girl placed a dainty hand over her face. And she laughed.

Higher, higher and higher still she laughed. Until the empty chamber echoed with the crumbing sanity and high pitched screaming laughter of the girl on the floor, and she couldn't stop!

And then.... And then. . .

. . .

* * *

* * *

Harold held his father's hand as he stared at the wonder that was Diagon Ally. He was very grateful Heika had researched the place before he got there, otherwise they wouldn't have known where it was or how to find it.

He stroke his forehead self-consciously as he spotted a book series called "The Adventures of Harry Potter." 

That boy had a scar on his forehead just like he had. It even looked like his! Even if his scar finally had started to fade away. At least as much as normal scars ever did fade anyway. It would take a year, but by then it would be completely gone. His nice Patron had promised him that!

He smiled as he remembered how amused Belus Pul had looked when he asked him if he could get rid of it for him. Harold hated things that marred his good looks. Hated it with a passion! 

And to think... The only thing the Daemon wanted in return was the magic in the scar and whatever it held on to! Belus Pûl was such a kind and benevolent Patron...

Harold sighed happily at the memory as he studied himself in the closest shop window. It wouldn't be long now. Just another summer. He had lived with it for ten or eleven summers already --to the best of his father's calculations of his age. Or, well, his father's Astrologist's best guess at least-- he could live with it for one more year. And then he'd be just as beautiful as his father was!

The joyful grin on the young Prince's face was lost in the sea of smiles, and could easily have been mistaken for the joy of yet another muggleborn entering the wizarding world for the first time. After all, nobody recognized the strangers, so it stood to reason that they were not pureblood --unless they were foreigners of course. But those were few and far between.

 _"Oddrùn!"_ Sigvald's commanding voice boomed over the crowd, and his father's servant seemed to materialize out of the shadows in that strange way of his. 

Oddrùn was good at fading into the background and shadows for some reason. Although with his looks, Harold could hardly blame him for not wanting to be seen. Harold shuddered at the thought of the horrible curse the nice man had been burdened with.

A few people stared at the people speaking in a foreign language, but they quickly lost interest and went on with their own shopping.

 _"....and don't forget to get the very best of these...Potion ingredients! Heìka told me quality was extremely important, and that the teacher is apparently abnormally strict in this class --by wizarding standards, whatever that means... And I absolutely refuse to let something as menial as sub-par ingredients hold my son back in class!"_

Harold smiled up at his father. The worship in his eyes as he looked at the man who had saved him, loved him, and given him everything his tiny little heart desired, was there for the world to see.

 _"Father, look!"_ he said, pointing at the book store. _"Can I go and see what they have in there? Can I?!"_

 _"Of course you can, son."_ Sigvald said, smiling as he stroked his son's beautiful hair. _"But let's see if we can find you some of those wizard robes first. It's important for wizards and sorcerer's to have the right robes. They tell the world how important you are, and what status you have in the Guild or some-such. According to Heìka at least. And we wouldn't want anyone to think you weren't important."_

 _"Oh, and we must open a spending account for you here! They have their own currency after all, and it wouldn't do for you to run out of spending-money in the middle of the school-year!"_ he quickly added.

They both looked properly horrified at the mere thought of it.

It took them some time to find the robe shop that allegedly were somewhere in the Diagon Alley place --nearly ten minutes in fact-- but they did finally find it. 

The scissors over the doors were a big clue, for all that the sign itself was slightly faded.

Sigvald wrinkled his nose as he looked at the shabby-looking, small store. It was filled with school kids from all walks of life, and looked not at all exclusive. Which usually meant they did shoddy work too.

 _"Djakre! Send for Heìka,"_ he wrinkled his nose in disgust, _"We are not going near that...that.... tawdry tailoring shop!"_ Sigvald said, and Harold nodded along, staring at the clearly poverty-stricken commoner --from the looks of his worn robes and uncombed red hair-- that walked into Madam Malkins along with what could only be his mother.

Mind you, Sigvald had nothing against commoners in general --he'd even bedded quite a few of the better-looking ones-- but he refused to shop in the same store as them! He was better than such rabble, as was his son!

 _"My personal tailor can do a way better job than anything coming out of that place!"_ Harold spoke with conviction, and more than a little disgust.

 _"Don't worry son. Heika will be able to figure out what kind of robes your school wants you to have. And I'm quite sure he can find the best person to sew it, and select the very **best** fabrics for you,"_ Sigvald suddenly smiled and placed a royal hand on his son's dark silken locks.

 _"Only the best is good enough for my son!"_ he said, and was promptly rewarded with a wide, joyful grin that made his heart clench in such a pleasant way that he would happily slaughter an entire nation just to see it one more time.

 _"Does that mean I can get those Crown Jewles I wanted then?"_ Harold said, looking up at his father with his biggest, prettiest puppy-dog eyes. Sigvald felt his hear clench again at the sight and indulged in the sensation for a moment before replying.

 _"Of course son. I'm sure there are someone who's willing to steal them for you. If not, we'll just have to **take** it!"_ he exclaimed in exited anticipation. Oh what a glorious battle that would be!

Harold hugged his father --against all his training-- in public, but Sigvald merely laughed and stroked his son's back affectionately.

 _"Ah, finally! That must be Gringots,"_ he said, pointing out the tall marble building some way down the road. 

Harold stared at it. It certainly looked like a bank. And the guards outside was a nice touch. It showed that they took protecting the gold seriously, instead of relying on technology or magic alone, and that was probably a good sign!

Harold smiled at the creatures that was standing outside the bank, but couldn't help but stare. 

It wasn't human. That was something he felt quite sure about. If anything, it looked like a strange combination of a friendly goblin and a dwarf. Especially since this one had a pointed beard, a swarthy, clever face, and was a little more than a head shorter than him. 

Sigvald merely smiled at the greeter. He looked quite dapper in his red and gold uniform, and far more human than any goblin he'd ever met before. 

If Heìka was right --and he usually was-- then these goblins were of mixed blood dating far, far back down their generations. He could only hope they remembered their ancestral language. Or, at least the one they normally used when dealing with humans.

He chuckled to himself as he read the challenge they'd put up on the wall. They had such a lovely sense of humor.

Harold noticed his father's chuckles, and his attention was drawn to a golden plaque inscribed with what could have been a challenge, and could be a warning... he wasn't quite sure which.

 ** _"Enter, stranger, but take heed_**

 ** _Of what awaits the sin of greed_**

 ** _For those who take, but do not earn_**

 ** _Must pay most dearly in their turn_**

 ** _So if you seek beneath our floors_**

 ** _A treasure that was never yours_**

 ** _Thief, you have been warned, beware_**

 ** _Of finding more than treasure there."_**

Harold smiled. It hinted at a mystery hidden below the main level of the bank, and he was suddenly curious to find out exactly what that was.

Sadly it would have to wait for another day, as Sigvald merely gave a small nod to the greeter --or guard, if one considered his weapons-- and moved along.

Sigvald walked up to a miraculously empty till --Heíka had done his homework on when the bank were busy and not, it was beneath him to stand in line like a peasant-- and gave a dazzling grin to the creature behind it.

The teller looked up and sneered at them.

"Yes?" he said, glaring at them. If Sigvald hadn't know it was the normal reaction goblins had to most wizards, he would have been insulted.

"I've come to open a Trust Vault for my son," he said in nearly fluent --if strangely old-fashioned-- Gobbedigokk.

The goblin's eyes widened almost comically at hearing his own language spoken by a human. 

Wizards were arrogant creatures that seemed to think goblins were below them, stupid as they were, especially when considering that the Goblin nation held their gold and valuables hostage --as per the post-war agreement.

But his professionalism finally managed to assert itself, and he pulled out a few papers from a drawer.

 _"Fill out this. This. This. And that. Sign here...here...initials here..."_

Harold sighed and stared at the relativity few pieces of interest that the main room of the bank had to offer. It was pretty. Very luxurious, and the chandelier in the ceiling may or may not have had real diamonds in... but everything was so terribly neat and orderly and just plain out boring! 

The only thing that saved the bank from total destruction --or at least a small amount of mayhem-- was that the walls were marble and polished well enough to function as a mirror. And if there was one trait Harold truly had inherited from his father, it was a slowly growing obsession with his own looks.

He smiled to himself as he studied his own reflection. After his trade with Belus Pul his scar was slowly fading away. Too slow for Harold's liking, but at least it wasn't burning as if it was fresh anymore, and it should be completely gone within a year. The make-up Darla had applied to it was hiding it fairly well for now, but he could still see the outlines of it when he looked closely.

 _"There. All done. Now all I need is a drop of blood from you son so we can record his identity for later, and we're all done,"_ the goblin said with a vicious smirk.

"Great! Come on son! ...Son? Harold?" Sigvald turned to see where his son had gone off to and chuckled, placing his hand on his shoulder and dragged him away from the wall. He was tempted to check his own looks, but for once he resisted the temptation as he focused on the task at hand.

 _"Daaaad!"_ Harold complained petulant, crossing his arms. Before he suddenly remembered where they were, and he flushed with shame. What would his father think of him!

But Sigvald merely looked upon him with an indulgent smile, which somehow made Harold feel even worse. 

His father was the best father in the whole wide world --and so forgiving too! And he promised himself that he'd work even harder on being a good son and to live up to his father's high expectations, and prove he was worth everything Sigvald had given him!

"Come along son. The goblins just need some proof of identety. A blood spell, if I'm not mistaken,"

"Okay," Harold acquitted easily, pulling out his own dagger from under his cloak. "Amount?"

* * *

Harold looked fondly at the books in front of him and sighed. For all their physical similarities --crows-nest of a hair aside-- Harold was was nothing like him... Much to his dismay. 

He had never visited the elves and had tea with the Elf Queen Or slain a dragon....yet. Nor had he gotten the chance to ride on Pegasi and Hippogriffs, or traveled to all those strange and wonderful places that the kid in those books had. It was totally unfair!

Although, granted, his lack of indulgences and goodie-two-shoe way of acting was a bit too paladin-like for his comfort, but it didn't really matter. That kid was still outdoing him! To think... the boy even defeated a powerful wizard before he even left his crib, how cool was that?!

They had been lucky, and had a scholar in the Court that had been more than happy to re-write the stories a bit so they better suited Harold and Sigvald's tastes-- Less Paladin-like and more Slaaneshi. Not to mention translate them so his mother could read it for him in their own language.

But he still wished he could do all the cool stuff this kid had done!

Troll-hunting with his father and visiting the Drow to trade the slaves and gods his father had gained on his last raid just wasn't the same.... Although after reading the books, he did rescue a Princess! ...a very ungrateful princess... 

Oh, well... At least she'd been useful in the kitchen. He supposed he might have to re-visit the possible things to use a princess for, now that he was practically an adult. As he understood it, adults liked girls much, much better than children. He just hadn't figured out exactly why yet, but he felt as if he might someday soon. And he had his dragon, of course...

He was jolted out of his thoughts by someone poking him.

"Yes?" he asked, his accent was thankfully not that bad, but still held an edge of the sharp, harsh language of Chaos. He was thankful that his father insisted on those english lessons once every moon-cycle to keep his skills with it alive... even if he only started last year and hadn't spoken it in years.

"I couldn't help but notice you looking at the Harry Potter books, aren't they the best?" the girl asked excitedly.

"I didn't know anything about magic when I got my letter, and I was ever so happy to learn I was a witch! Isn't it exiting?! What do you want to learn the most? What house do you think you'll be in? I want to be in Gryffindor, like Dumbledore was," she said with a court nod, "He's a great man! Have you read your schoolbooks yet? What's your favorite spell?" the girl was a veritable chatterbox who wouldn't allow him two words edgewise.

Well, almost. They did manage to have a small discussion of which of the Harry Potter books that were best, and he was amazed to learn that they were, apparently, based on a real person. Whoever this 'Harry Potter' was, he was clearly quite famous in these lands, by the looks of it.

It was only when he spotted his father and Heika, and told her he had to leave that she even remembered introducing herself.

"Oh, but I ramble! I'm Hermione Granger. What's your name?" she belatedly held out her hand for him to shake.

"Harold, son of Sigvald. Prince of Gilded Palace," he smiled charmingly and kissed her hand with a light bow of his head. Even his accent were charmingly exotic. 'Almost like Russian' she thought.

"Pleasure, miss Granger. I am charmed... Truly," the smile he gave her was downright sinful. "I see you at Hochkwarts."* 

He stared deeply into her eyes holding her hand for a few moments longer than was decent, running his thumb across it the way his diplomacy* teacher had told him to do. 

Her cheeks flushed red, which --he decided --was rather cute. Maybe girls were not so bad after all.

He felt very satisfied with himself that he remembered everything his tutors had taught him. 

The next moment he forgot everything about her as his Father mentioned something about 50 flavors of icecream.

"Wow... A magical Prince...." Hermione muttered breathlessly as she watched him leave. 

And in no way did her hear flutter, like touched by the glittering wings of a butterfly. Nope, not her. Absolutely not! She was too smart for such fluffy, pointless emotions.

Still she kept staring after him until he was lost in the crowds of shopping wizards.

* * *

 _"I still say that the what's-its-name ice-cream we had at that restaurant in New York is bound to be better! The one where they fly you out to that Kilimanjaro mountain."_ Harold said.

 _"The_ Absurdity Sundae _, yes. Well, I don't know... I found the_ Frrrozen Haute _Chocolate at_ Serendipity 3 _to be better,"_ Sigvald said, stroking his chin in contemplation.

 _"You're only saying that because they covered it in edible gold, gold and-- oh! More gold. Oh, and it was served in-- what do you know? even more gold! "_ Harold said waving his hands about before grinning cheekily at his father. 

He loved the shiny luxury stuff too, but they did have a whole palace covered in it back home! 

He much preferred the whole awesome flying trip out to the mountain in a jet and to watch it being made with snow from high, high up there. It was way more fun!

 _"Perhaps..."_ Sigvald chuckled. _"But don't knock at a store that can sell you every flavor you can think of. Just think of something you've never tasted before. Something **nobody** has ever tasted before!"_ Sigvald said with an eager, contagious grin as the door in front of them were opened by the usual wallflower of a servant. He might as well have been an automatic door-opener for all they noticed him. 

_"I guess..."_ Harold said, screwing up his face in thought. _"But the place didn't look all that amazing, and there wasn't even a VIP section,"_ he frowned at the thought. 

But he decided to listen to his father and try it anyway. After this. Pleasure could be found in even the most frowned upon places as Dolmance always said. And he was certainly frowning enough at that place!

Happy with his sound logic, and with his new resolve to at least try their ice-creams later on, he dismissed the topic and quickly followed his father through the door.

Now, a wand on the other hand....Now that was exiting!

The small bell on the door rang cheerfully as it closed behind them, leaving them in a dark and dusty room filled with shelves filled with boxes.

 _"Fascinating...."_ Sigvald said. _"I haven't seen such a quaint little shop since my last visit to the Empire,"_ he said, taking in the scenery with some curiosity.

Harold looked around the store, wondering where the people working here was. He suddenly felt a bit uneasy and spun around. It felt as if he was being watched, but he couldn't quite figure out by whom or what.

His bodyguard Dar'Slaa, on the other hand, had her eyes trailed on a shadowy corner in the back of the story, watching it with her usual suspicious. Which --in Harold's experience-- meant that there was something there. Her Dark Elf heritage left her with senses far beyond that of humans that --albeit not infallible-- made her an excellent bodyguard.

An old man stepped out of the shadows not a moment later, regarding her with a look of slight disappointment and much curiosity. However, the moment he saw Harold he stared at him quite strangely, especially at the ugly scar that marred his forehead --his makeup had not survived the summer heat-- and he changed his focus to the young prince. 

The old man had something strange and obsessive about the way he focused on you that made Harold feel both flattered and slightly creeped out. Although he couldn't quite put his finger on why.

"I thought I'd be seeing you soon, Harry Potter." It wasn't a question. "You have your mother's eyes. But nothing of your father...." he sounded puzzled at his own statement. 

"It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work." Olivander quickly scampered over to his many boxes, as if looking for something. 

"Your father, on the other hand, favored a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for transfiguration. Well, I say your father favored it- it's really the wand that chooses the wizard, of course."

Harold stared after him for a few second, before he started laughing heartily, making Olivander pause.

"Good one, old man!" Harold said laughing. "Almost made me believing you knew me. But my name is wrong!" Harold said, wiping away tears of mirth. He did suppose his mother's eyes were green... he hadn't actually thought about it before. But it there was a _reason_ she was considered the most beautiful woman in the world.

Sigvald, on the other hand was frowning, placing his hands possessively on the shoulders of his son.

"Harold is my son! And I most certainly have not bought any wands here before, nor have my wife!" the self-proclaimed King sounded almost sulky as he said this.

"Although now that we're here.... I might as well!" he said, suddenly grinning excitedly at the prospect. His emotions oscillated as quickly as always, making the sly old man wonder if he had imagined the feeling of impending doom that emitted from the young, handsome man only a moment ago. Now he suddenly seemed more like a child than a threat.

It also --for the first time in known history-- make the wise old wand-maker question his own observational skills. But his memory was second to non, and those eyes....

"Your scar..." he said, voicing his thoughts, "how did you get it?!" he rushed close to study it, only for the dangerous-looking female whom had spotted him to inject herself in his path, placing a blade to his throat.

"No touch the Prince!" she hissed at him, her words heavily accented in what sounded as harsh as Russian or German, yet being neither. Ollivander quickly raised his hands and backed away.

"I'm truly sorry ma'm. I was just curious how he got it. It looks just like the scar of....of a boy who's parents I knew," he said, sounding almost mournful.

 _"Step **down,** Darla."_ Harold said exasperated. Really. She was far too overprotective sometimes. The old man was clearly just a bit overly obsessive and creepy. Harold didn't think he would dare to harm someone like him in a public place like this! Besides... His father would never allow it!

"Mr... Olivander is it?" he asked, waiting for the old man to nod before he continued. It wasn't a story he liked sharing --it was rather embarrassing-- but it was also not his fault, so he didn't see the problem doing so. It seemed the easiest solution, really. Possibly even the best.

"You won't go tell this, yes?" he gave him a Royal Glare, and Olivander gave another nod.

"I was... kidnapped a baby. Someone sold me for this horrible couple as a slave. I, too small to remember. My guess they mark me a slave --maybe they like torture children. Loesh* knows I have many scars, before father saved me," he muttered the last part and tugged at his long hair in self-consciously.

No! It wasn't his fault! Harold had only been a baby at the time! It was all the slaver's fault. They had been the ones to capture him and sold him as a slave, after all. Or the idiots that were supposed to look after him while his parents were gone! Totally not his fault!!

He straightened back up. "Now. How about wand?" he smiled charmingly at the old man, if a bit tight.

"O...of course." Olivander said, stumbling back to his beloved wands and more familiar ground. His head was still spinning from the new information --and the various logical conclusions he drew from it. He did not get to the old age he was at as a Wandmaker by being stupid.

"Try this," he said, holding out an open box with a beautiful wand inside it, "Apple Wood with a Unicorn Hair core, 12 inches."

Harold stared at it. It looked quite beautiful, he had to admit. 

"Give it a wave." Olivander said impatiently, looking at him expectantly. 

Harold flaunted a regal, flourishing swirl of the wand, and a row of wands fell from their shelves, an old potted plan on the till caught on fire and in the process scorched the old man's eyebrows.

"No. Nope. Definitely not!" Olivander said, snatching the wand away, patting at his burning eyebrows. 

He rushed over to the boxes and started rummaging through them, before coming over with a new box.

"How about this? Cypress and Dragon Heart Core, 14 inches." 

A row of boxes trashed out from their assigned places in a chaotic mess.

"Oh dear..." Olivander said and snatched the wand back, before repeating the process with yet another wand. Then another. And another. And yet another.

All in all it was quite difficult to say just how much time they had been in there, but it was bound to be quite awhile.

Sigvald had gotten bored and started exploring the shop and poke at some of the more unusual items to keep himself amused --after ordering the man-servant to entertain them, something he failed miserably at. But his offer to get them some treats instead was shut down by Garrik "No food in my store!" Olivander.

Harold was beginning to grow a twitch in the corner of his eyes that told even those unfamiliar with him that he was contemplating the value of homicide or just anything that would stop this torture.

"Don't worry, young prince. I have never failed to find the right wand before, and I'm not about to fail now!" Olivander quickly said, before scurrying away. 

He felt a bit sad... He had gotten so close to a match with the Holy and Phoenix feather one --it was almost as if it was meant to be with the boy, but something blocked it. The wand itself had cracked as he used it, which was most irregular. He wondered what it meant... Never in all his time as a wand-maker had the wand cracked like that!

He decided to put the broken wand aside for future contemplation. He almost wondered if the core was right, but not the wood? It was something he would have to look into later. 

But right now, he had a very difficult customer to please.

"Ah, here we go.... Chestnut and Dragon Heartstring. 15 and a half inch. Neat, and with a flexible tip paired with a very rigid handle.* Most unusual!" Ollivander said, his face lighting up in joy at the thought. An unusual wand for an unusual boy. But from what he had now learned about the prince, this was perhaps the closest fit he could find.

Harold gave it a dramatic swish, and a swirl of rose petals fluttered through the air, before it dosed everyone in the sickening sweet scent of decaying roses along with a tantalizing musky scent. Yet the petals themselves looked as fresh as if they were newly picked and the crystalline dew drops on them gleamed in the dying sunlight outside the shop. It was altogether rather strange, yet wonderful at the same time.

They all smiled as they breathed in the deceptively pleasant scents.

"How dramatic!" the old man exclaimed happily. "I think we can expect great things from you, Young Prince," he said. But his face had a slightly pallid, worried look to it.

"I think we can expect great things from you, young Prince," he said, pausing a second to lick his lips nervously, "After all--" he didn't get to finish.

Sigvald was already distracted by something shiny that had fallen on the floor --pushed forth by the rose petal winds.

"What's this?" he asked, walking over to it. It was a wand, halfway fallen out of it's box. It was carved in the most beautiful and intricate design and it shone like silver when the dying sun hit the wand.

"I'm sad to say that wand was created by my grandfather, " Ollivander bowed his head in shame. "It was the first and only dishonest creation by my family, and I do not know which purpose he intended it for. It is very volatile. Dangerous even!"

"But what is? Pretty!" Harold said, studying the wand in its enticing beauty.

"It's a fake Silver Lime wand," he sighed. "In reality, it's nothing more than colored wood. Hawthorn to be precise. Within it rests a single scorched feather from a Phoenix on it's Burning Day. 17 inches. The amethyst at the bottom of the handle is considered to be a stone of royals and is, of course, a very spiritual stone. Highly unusual for a wand, and most likely just another decorative aspect of this particular wand of course.

It's an extremely capricious wand! Which is strange in and of itself..." Ollivander's eyes went hazy as he wondered how a wand could be both very flexible and very rigid, depending on it's wielders current mood. Perhaps it was the Hawthorn.* 

Now that he thought about it, both the son and his father had wands that were strikingly similar in some ways... especially with being both unusual flexible, yet rigid and unyielding. Both were his grandfather's creations. He was just about to open his mouth to barrage them with questions, this was surely a unique opportunity for wand-to-personality study!

But Sigvald had already stopped listening and bent down to pick it up.

"Wait, don't!" Ollivander tried to warn, but it was too late.

Sigvald gasped as the most excruciating sensation rushed through him. It was pleasure so strong it verged on pain --or perhaps it was the other way around? He moaned in pleasure and fell to his knees, still clutching the wand.

The air became saturated with the most overpowering, sickly sweet musk. And from the wand's tip a rainbow of pink and purple shades burst forth, twisting and turning into illusionary pleasures that vanished almost as soon as they came. There was something unnatural about it. Something sinful and sweet, but with a faint undertone of death and decay hidden in the midst of the pleasant --if overwhelming-- musky scent.

"Father?" Harold asked, a slight worry in his voice.

"I _must _have this wand!" he exclaimed in a hoarse, sensual tone, shuddering as he slowly rose to his feet. He clutched it protectively in his grip and pulled away when Ollivander tried to take it back, stroking it lovingly.

"I must advice you against it, your Majesty. That wand is highly volatile! It was never meant to be used!" Ollivander licked his lips, a nervous twitch he rarely exhibited. He would never reveal his grandfather's secrets, but from what he had read of his journal as he researched it, it sounded very much like the wand was intended to kill it's owner. His own father had theorized that it was meant to be sold to an enemy of his... Silver Lime were deeply coveted after all.

"I don't care!" Sigvald exclaimed passionately.

"I have to warn you; Hawthorn is known for backfiring if the spell is cast less than perfect. The result is often unpredictable and highly dangerous!" he tried again.

"Money is no issue, just name your price!" Sigvald said, assuming the old man were merely trying to drive up the price for such a wondrous creation. And who could blame him? It was truly an amazing piece of art!

"I hope you are extremely skilled at using your wand at least." Ollivander sighed and accepted the usual cost for a wand.

"Oh, I'm sure Heika knows how to use one," Sigvald waved away his concerns. "Wands looks terribly fascinating, I can't imagine he could resist learning more about them. I know I can't!"

The old wand-maker could only stare at them in horror as they quickly left the store, chatting animatedly about their new possessions. Olivander wiped his brow nervously with his handkerchief as the gravity of the situation dawned upon him.

"Dear Merlin..." he chocked out, staring after the father and son as they walked, laughing merrily. 

"I just sold one of the most dangerous and volatile wands known to man to a muggleborn royalty that probably didn't even know he was a wizard until his son got his letter.... What have I done?!"

* * *

"What does the ticket say again?"* Sigvald asked his son, looking around the crowded station in disgust.

"Platform 9 and 3/4." Harold read, looking around confused.

"Look, father... I know I have never traveled with the transportation of the common masses before, but is it normal for it to be so....dirty? And so loud?" he wrinkled his little nose, looking a whole lot like his father.

"I know, son. I know. I don't like it either. But remember what I told you about boarding schools?"

"I know..." Harold sighed. "They're a way to build character and see how the other half lives..." he rolled his eyes. Honestly! There ought to be some kind of elite school that was better than this...Hochk-wart.

"I see nine... I see ten... I don't see any quarters." Sigvald glared at the trains. "Are you sure Heika isn't pulling a prank on us?" Sigvald said doubtfully.

"Heika's too serious to do that. He's never any fun! And I doubt he'd lie about Sorcery." Harold said, studying the area, hoping that maybe it was just hidden away in a corner or something. Commoners!

"Oh, look! There's a group of those robed individuals. They have to be sorcerers, right?" Harold said, heading towards them. Sigvald merely chuckled, but didn't correct his son's chosen terminology. He did, however, agree with his son. He could not remember seeing anyone in this world wearing robes that wasn't wizards.

"Excuse me." Harold said, trying to make the words come out right. He had been practising diligently the last few weeks, but this language was still far too soft for his vocal-cords, however, and some words sounded like they got stuck in his throat, in a harsh way that made it clear he was foreign.

"Hello," the woman said, smiling, if a bit garded.

"You are all sorcerers? Can you tell me where the Hochk'ard train is?" 

At his question, the woman blinked, before her face lit up in understanding.

"Oh, you're going to Hogwarts? Of course dearie. I'm Molly by the way. Molly Weasly," she smiled and held out her hand. He took it and placed a light kiss just above her knuckles, as was proper, wondering if she was a miss or a mrs. Based on the number of kids, he assumed the latter.

"I Harold, Son of Sigvald. Prince of the Gilded palace," he said puffing his chest out in childish pride, a charming smile on his lips. 

She hid a small smile of her own. Such a nice, young man. He would be a ladykiller one day, she was sure of it. Then what he said caught up with her.

"Oh my! A prince! It's a pleasure to meet you, your highness," she said, making a slight curtsy. She failed to realize the correct title would be 'your royal highness', but it was okay. Harold didn't care much about his titles beyond what they gave him. Especially the family part.

"Mrs Weasly, This my father. His Majesty King Sigvald the Magnificent of the Gilded Palace," he said and stepped back with a small, formal nod of his head. What she happened next very nearly took her breath away. 

If she had thought that the young boy with the silk-like raven hair and his emerald eyes were beautiful, he had nothing on his father!

Sigvald looked every bit what she had always imagined the perfect Prince Charming would look like. It was as if he had stepped straight out of a fairy-tale! 

His hair shone like spun gold and held an enchanting, silk-like quality to it as it fell elegantly down past his shoulders. His dark sky-blue eyes looked like someone had stolen a gem from the heavens themselves, and they shone with a charming intensity and passion that made her flush with a long-forgotten passion that rushed to heat her cheeks as they focused in on her, as if she was the only person in the world.

Molly was sure that even the fey would admire his perfect features. And, truth be told, it was a bit eerie to see such perfection. Surely he could not be human!

The fey King took her hand gently, and placed a less than chaste kiss upon the back of her hand, and she almost fanned herself. How did it get so hot in here?

"Charmed, madam. Or is it miss?" his smile was flirtatious, and his manners so filled with confidence and grace that she almost heard herself proclaim she was single, before her mind and memory caught up with her. This time the blush dusting her chubby cheeks was one of shame.

"Miss...ess," she said, casting a quick glance at her children, and quickly pulled her hand back as if burned. And her husband was standing right there! What would he think of her?!

"Yes, well... Better get moving then," she said, still flushed. "Ron, you go first!"

"But mooom!" he whined, and Molly couldn't help but compare her own son to the Prince, before she shook her head. No! Ron was her son, and she loved him no matter what! She wouldn't trade him for the world! Even if she wish he would listen to her a bit more...

"Go on dearies, Ron's just a bit shy about leaving home for the first time," she tried to excuse, deadly embarrassed. Which in turn, naturally enough, embarrassed Ron.

" 'm not shy," he muttered.

"Best do it in a bit of a run if you're nervous... not that I think you'd be nervous of course!" her laughter, on the other hand, made it clear that she was. She could only pray her other sons would behave.

"I'm sure we'll be fine," Sigvald said. Humor glittering in those mesmerizing eyes of his. "Come along, son. You don't want to miss the train," he flashed a last, charming grin at the flushed woman and her sons, completely ignoring the more and more sullen-looking husband of hers. 

"I see you all at school," Harold said as he stepped back from her children, whom he'd been talking to. They all appeared to be in various states of awe, amusement and --in the case of little Ginny-- much the same daze as her mother, but twice as red.

Sigvald and Harold on the other hand had already moved on, and quickly walked through the right column as if they had always known where it was. Neither of them spared a single glance at the family that were staring after them with such diverse emotions playing in their eyes.

 _"Hrm..."_ Harold looked at the train. _"Very...quaint."_

 _"I fear it might not have a first class second anywhere. But then again, that is how it is with boarding schools. From what I have heard about it, boarding-schools tend to be a bit rough living... it's to build character. Perhaps some kind of misguided warrior-life upbringing."_

Harold nodded. It was like a war-camp, he supposed. Preparing you for the military life and all that. Lots of noble sons back home were groomed to lead their country's armies in war after all. Or at least serve as their King's generals and the likes.

He still sighed. He would miss his own comfortable wing of the Palace, and his personal servants that catered to his every whim. 

He felt something slitter up onto his shoulders, having crawled up from her previous hiding-place around his waist.

 _"At least I have you, Darla,"_ he stroked the strange serpent that was now curling around his shoulders.

Sigvald merely smiled. He felt a bit safe with the knowledge that his son had a bodyguard that would do anything to protect his son while he was in school. He _had_ been reluctant to let the source of so much pleasure leave his home for so much of the year. He would hate it if anyone killed him --or worse, _marred_ his beauty!

The black serpent with the strange purple diamond pattern on her back turned and bowed her head at him. Her fleshy pink eyes gleamed with human intelligence in the bright sunlight.

 _"Now remember son, always be polite, or at the very least charming. No matter what!"_ Sigvald lectured his son --partly because the decaying etiquette teacher had threatened to come himself if he didn't, partly to ensure his son came back to him so he could enjoy the amusing emotions he evoked in him yet again.

In all fairness, Sigvald had wanted to refuse to let him go all-together, but as it turned out his wife and Oddrùn were very adamant it should be Harold's choice, and Heíka had filled him in on some of the potential consequences of allowing a Born Sorcerer to stay untrained. Something about Wild Magic and horrible consequences for all parties involved.

In the end, Sigvald finally yielded after a comment on how he would end up tired of the kid if he saw him every single day with no breaks. And that was perhaps the most horrifying threat of them all!

 _"Now... I don't care if you're about to kill someone. You should still remember to introduce yourself politely first. I did not raise a peasant!"_ Sigvald admonished as he fussed over his precious gem and heir, brushing imaginary dust of his cloak and patting down his already perfect hair.

 _"Yes, father."_ Harold said, holding back an exasperated sigh. And he had thought his Mother was bad! At least _she_ wasn't allowed to leave the Palace. Not that she could have if she wanted too. 

His young heart made a pleasurably tingle of pain shoot through his body as he thought about not seeing her or his father for a whole year. He shuddered if pleasure as tears welled up in his eyes, before wiping them away.

Then he smiled again. He was going away to a boarding-school to learn magic! And even if his father had relented and allowed him to go, he still fussed over him as if he was a child, and not an almost-man --very nearly an adult-- who had already killed his first prey!

Said father whom was currently wrapping him in a smothering, suffocatingly tight hug.

It brought a small smile to his lips to know just how much his fickle and capricious father loved him.

* * *

* * *

* * *

NOTES:

*Khaos = Chaos, the sea of souls, magic power. (A.i. The magic winds that corrupts.)

I will use the language of Khaos here and there, because it is the language Harold grew up with. And some things just cannot be properly translated, because Dark Speech denotes big concepts, rather than a detailed language. (I presume it works much like japanese, and context is everything.)

*It does. If you twist your mind just the right way, relax your muscles ,and give in to the sensation, just about ANY pain can be changed to pleasure. The strength of the pleasure depends on the strength of the pain.

 ** _Just don't hold onto hot plates for too long, ecstatic tho it may be. Burn wounds are incredibly irritating. lol_**

*A Small note on Harold's language skills: He's used to the harsh Norse language and the Language of Chaos. It WILL show in his accent. (I have picked up accents in places I lived less than a year, and children are even more malleable.)

*It's NOT a mistake. 

The Old World is the place Sigvald lives in. But the NEW World is actually the Empire down south. So I had to figure out what they'd call an ACTUALLY new world... If anyone has a better suggestion, please share. lol

And DO remember that Dark Speech is a concept language. That is to say, each word means a multitude of things. (Look it up.) And that means zero binding-words. Which may show up in Harold's less than stellar grammar skills, as he drops many binding words, and cuts straight to what he is trying to say if he's overly exited or upset . Or use a word from Dark Speech to express a concept that just don't translate well.

I imagine it works a bit like japanese, and is a contextual language. No 'you are pretty', just 'pretty'. Except the same word in Dark Speech like means a wider range of things.The context makes the subject obvious. (Yes I study languages a lot. lol)

He speaks it reasonably well, since he both used to live there, and have had the rare visit with his Father and his Court while growing up. (It will be written about in the Prequel at a later point.)

*Royal Mail -- I know, I know. Bad pun. But I just couldn't resist it! *Laughs*

(You may have to be british to get it. lol)

*In case it wasn't aboundantly clear --if you've read the Prequel at least-- Sigvald's perception of Diplomacy falls more in line with seduction, manipulation and quite possibly threats and/or brute force.

*The cursive writing is them speaking in their own language.

*Loesh is a less known name for Slaanesh, although there are those tribes up North that uses worship him under it.

The main reason he doesn't openly use Slaanesh' name is because the Empire's persecution of any Slaaneshi --and generally all followers of the Chaos Gods--, which would naturally lead them to conceal whom they serves while traveling. 

**This habit would most certainly be picked up by Harold, considering he and his father travels a lot. And the Norsca would most likely know who he was talking about anyway.**

* Harold's wand is made of Chestnut paired with Dragon Heartstring. (A wand suited for those overfond of luxury and material things, and less scrupulous about how they get them.)

His wand, while not quite AS long as his father's, is still pretty damned long. Closer to Hagrids perhaps. I'd say 15 and a half inch. It is also a Neat wand (Neat wands produce a more elegant spellcasting.) The Flexible tip and Rigid handle could be argued as someone whom has a unyielding core, but an extremely flexible personality --in other words, a capricious person with a strict set of underlying Values, Personality and/or Beliefs.

*Sigvald's wand is Hawethorn, which has a contradictory nature, is difficult as hell to master and often backfires. 17 inches is bigger than even Hagrid's wand. (Because of Sigvald's melodramatic and over-the-top personality. Large wand = Big personality.

He's about averagely tall for a Norsca, which is about average or a tad bit taller than a Brit. The result would have been comical if not for the confidence with which he wields it.

The dragon heartstring core makes it quite powerful, and the small gem of amethyst is often seen as a stone for royals as well as spirituality. But the color of it is also sacred to Slaanesh. (Black, Violet and Fleshy Pink is his 'sacred colors'.)

The [wandmaker](https://harrypotter.fandom.com/wiki/Wandmaker) [Gregorovitch](https://harrypotter.fandom.com/wiki/Mykew_Gregorovitch) wrote that hawthorn "makes a strange, contradictory wand, as full of paradoxes as the tree that gave it birth, whose leaves and blossoms heal, and yet whose cut branches smell of [death](https://harrypotter.fandom.com/wiki/Death)." While he and [Garrick Ollivander](https://harrypotter.fandom.com/wiki/Garrick_Ollivander) disagreed on many fronts, they concurred about hawthorn wands, which are complex and intriguing in their natures, just like the owners who best suit them.

What Olivander finds extraordinary is how similar the two wands are, while being so different. Although not entirely unusual for a father and son, what IS unusual is the rigid yet flexible quality of the wands. (Normally the wands have only one flexibility. But this is a denotation that they are rigidly set in who they are, but often change on the surface. Especially their moods and desires.)


End file.
